unholy laugh. "The Silent Earl will be a braw man when he gets it on."
Then, without more ado, they set to work to cut out and sew the garment.
All that night they worked, and all next day, till, late in the
afternoon, when they were putting in the last stitches, hurried
footsteps were heard ascending the winding staircase, and Earl Harold
burst open the door.
His cheeks were red with passion, and his eyes were bright, for he could
not but notice that, now that she was safe at Orphir under her true
love's protection, the Lady Morna's manner had grown cold and distant
again, and he was beginning to lose faith in Snorro's charm.
Angry and disappointed, he had sought his mother's room to pour out his
story of vexation to her.
He stopped short, however, when he saw the wonderful waistcoat lying on
the table, all gold and silver and shining colours. It was like a fairy
garment, and its beauty took his breath away.
"For whom hast thou purchased that?" he asked, hoping to hear that it
was intended for him.
"'Tis a Christmas gift for thy brother Paul," answered his mother, and
she would have gone on to tell him how deadly a thing it was, had he
given her time to speak. But her words fanned his fury into madness, for
it seemed to him that this hated brother of his was claiming everything.
"Everything is for Paul! I am sick of his very name," he cried. "By my
troth, he shall not have this!" and he snatched the vest from the table.
It was in vain that his mother and his aunt threw themselves at his
feet, begging him to lay it down, and warning him that there was not a
thread in it which was not poisoned. He paid no heed to their words, but
rushed from the room, and, drawing it on, ran downstairs with a reckless
laugh, to show the Lady Morna how fine he was.
Alas! alas! Scarce had he gained the hall than he fell to the ground in
great pain.
Everyone crowded round him, and the two Countesses, terrified now by
what they had done, tried in vain to tear the magic vest from his body.
But he felt that it was too late, the deadly poison had done its work,
and, waving them aside, he turned to his brother, who, in great
distress, had knelt down and taken him tenderly in his arms.
"I wronged thee, Paul," he gasped. "For thou hast ever been true and
kind. Forgive me in thy thoughts, and," he added, gathering up his
strength for one last effort, and pointing to the two wretched women who
had wrought all this misery, "_Beware of those two women_, for they
seek to take thy life." Then his head sank back on his brother's
shoulder, and, with one long sigh, he died.
When he learned what had happened, and understood where the waistcoat
came from, and for what purpose it had been intended, the anger of the
Silent Earl knew no bounds. He swore a great oath that he would be
avenged, not only on Snorro the Dwarf, but also on his wicked
step-mother and her cruel sister.
His vengeance was baulked, however, for in the panic and confusion that
followed Harold's death, the two Countesses slipped out of the Palace
and fled to the coast, and took boat in haste to Scotland, where they
had great possessions, and where they were much looked up to, and where
no one would believe a word against them.
But retribution fell on them in the end, as it always does fall, sooner
or later, on everyone who is wicked, or selfish, or cruel; for the
Norsemen invaded the land, and their Castle was set on fire, and they
perished miserably in the flames.
When Earl Paul found that they had escaped, he set out in hot haste for
the Island of Hoy, for he was determined that the Dwarf, at least,
should not escape. But when he came to the Dwarfie Stone he found it
silent and deserted, all trace of its uncanny occupants having
disappeared.
No one knew what had become of them; a few people were inclined to think
that the Dwarf and his Raven had accompanied the Countess Fraukirk and
the Countess Helga on their flight, but the greater part of the
Islanders held to the belief, which I think was the true one, that the
Powers of the Air spirited Snorro away, and shut him up in some unknown
place as a punishment for his wickedness, and that his Raven accompanied
him.
At any rate, he was never seen again by any living person, and wherever
he went, he lost all chance of finding the magic carbuncle.
As for the Silent Earl and his Irish Sweetheart, they were married as
soon as Earl Harold's funeral was over; and for hundreds of years
afterwards, when the inhabitants of the Orkney Isles wanted to express
great happiness, they said, "As happy as Earl Paul and the Countess
Morna."
CANONBIE DICK AND THOMAS OF ERCILDOUNE
It chanced, long years ago, that a certain horse-dealer lived in the
South of Scotland, near the Border, not very far from Longtown. He was
known as Canonbie Dick; and as he went up and down the country, he
almost always had a long string of horses behind him, which he bought at
one fair and sold at another, generally managing to turn a good big
penny by the transaction.
He was a very fearless man, not easily daunted; and the people who knew
him used to say that if Canonbie Dick dare not attempt a thing, no one
else need be asked to do it.
One evening, as he was returning from a fair at some distance from his
home with a pair of horses which he had not succeeded in selling, he was
riding over Bowden Moor, which lies to the west of the Eildon Hills.
These hills are, as all men know, the scene of some of the most famous
of Thomas the Rhymer's prophecies; and also, so men say, they are the
sleeping-place of King Arthur and his Knights, who rest under the three
high peaks, waiting for the mystic call that shall awake them.
But little recked the horse-dealer of Arthur and his Knights, nor yet of
Thomas the Rhymer. He was riding along at a snail's pace, thinking over
the bargains which he had made at the fair that day, and wondering when
he was likely to dispose of his two remaining horses.
All at once he was startled by the approach of a venerable man, with
white hair and an old-world dress, who seemed almost to start out of the
ground, so suddenly did he make his appearance.
When they met, the stranger stopped, and, to Canonbie Dick's great
amazement, asked him for how much he would be willing to part with his
horses.
The wily horse-dealer thought that he saw a chance of driving a good
bargain, for the stranger looked a man of some consequence; so he named
a good round sum.
The old man tried to bargain with him; but when he found that he had not
much chance of succeeding--for no one ever did succeed in inducing
Canonbie Dick to sell a horse for a less sum than he named for it at
first--he agreed to buy the animals, and, pulling a bag of gold from the
pocket of his queerly cut breeches, he began to count out the price.
As he did so, Canonbie Dick got another shock of surprise, for the
gold that the stranger gave him was not the gold that was in use at the
time, but was fashioned into Unicorns, and Bonnet-pieces, and other
ancient coins, which would be of no use to the horse-dealer in his
everyday transactions. But it was good, pure gold; and he took it
gladly, for he knew that he was selling his horses at about half as much
again as they were worth. "So," thought he to himself, "surely I cannot
be the loser in the long run."
Then the two parted, but not before the old man had commissioned Dick to
get him other good horses at the same price, the only stipulation he
made being that Dick should always bring them to the same spot, after
dark, and that he should always come alone.
And, as time went on, the horse-dealer found that he had indeed met a
good customer.
For, whenever he came across a suitable horse, he had only to lead it
over Bowden Moor after dark, and he was sure to meet the mysterious,
white-headed stranger, who always paid him for the animal in
old-fashioned golden pieces.
And he might have been selling horses to him yet, for aught I know, had
it not been for his one failing.
Canonbie Dick was apt to get very thirsty, and his ordinary customers,
knowing this, took care always to provide him with something to drink.
The old man never did so; he paid down his money and led away his
horses, and there was an end of the matter.
But one night, Dick, being even more thirsty than usual, and feeling
sure that his mysterious friend must live somewhere in the
neighbourhood, seeing that he was always wandering about the hillside
when everyone else was asleep, hinted that he would be very glad to go
home with him and have a little refreshment.
"He would need to be a brave man who asks to go home with me," returned
the stranger; "but, if thou wilt, thou canst follow me. Only, remember
this--if thy courage fail thee at that which thou wilt behold, thou wilt
rue it all thy life."
Canonbie Dick laughed long and loud. "My courage hath never failed me
yet," he cried. "Beshrew me if I will let it fail now. So lead on, old
man, and I will follow."
Without a word the stranger turned and began to ascend a narrow path
which led to a curious hillock, which from its shape, was called by the
country-folk the "Lucken Hare."
It was supposed to be a great haunt of Witches; and, as a rule, nobody
passed that way after dark, if they could possibly help it.
Canonbie Dick was not afraid of Witches, however, so he followed his
guide with a bold step up the hillside; but it must be confessed that he
felt a little startled when he saw him turn down what seemed to be an
entrance to a cavern, especially as he never remembered having seen any
opening in the hillside there before.
He paused for a moment, looking round him in perplexity, wondering where
he was being taken; and his conductor glanced at him scornfully.
"You can go back if you will," he said. "I warned thee thou wert going
on a journey that would try thy courage to the uttermost." There was a
jeering note in his voice that touched Dick's pride.
"Who said that I was afraid?" he retorted. "I was just taking note of
where this passage stands on the hillside, so as to know it another
time."
The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "Time enough to look for it when
thou wouldst visit it again," he said. And then he pursued his way, with
Dick following closely at his heels.
After the first yard or two they were enveloped in thick darkness, and
the horse-dealer would have been sore put to it to keep near his guide
had not the latter held out his hand for him to grasp. But after a
little space a faint glimmering of light began to appear, which grew
clearer and clearer, until at last they found themselves in an enormous
cavern lit by flaming torches, which were stuck here and there in
sconces in the rocky walls, and which, although they served to give
light enough to see by, yet threw such ghostly shadows on the floor that
they only seemed to intensify the gloom that hung over the vast
apartment.
And the curious thing about this mysterious cave was that, along one
side of it, ran a long row of horse stalls, just like what one would
find in a stable, and in each stall stood a coal-black charger, saddled
and bridled, as if ready for the fray; and on the straw, by every
horse's side, lay the gallant figure of a knight, clad from head to foot
in coal-black armour, with a drawn sword in his mailed hand.
But not a horse moved, not a chain rattled. Knights and steeds alike
were silent and motionless, looking exactly as if some strange
enchantment had been thrown over them, and they had been suddenly turned
into black marble.
There was something so awesome in the still, cold figures and in the
unearthly silence that brooded over everything that Canonbie Dick,
reckless and daring though he was, felt his courage waning and his knees
beginning to shake under him.
In spite of these feelings, however, he followed the old man up the hall
to the far end of it, where there was a table of ancient workmanship, on
which was placed a glittering sword and a curiously wrought
hunting-horn.
When they reached this table the stranger turned to him, and said, with
great dignity, "Thou hast heard, good man, of Thomas of
Ercildoune--Thomas the Rhymer, as men call him--he who went to dwell for
a time with the Queen of Fairy-land, and from her received the Gifts of
Truth and Prophecy?"
Canonbie Dick nodded; for as the wonderful Soothsayer's name fell on his
ears, his heart sank within him and his tongue seemed to cleave to the
roof of his mouth. If he had been brought there to parley with Thomas
the Rhymer, then had he laid himself open to all the eldrich Powers of
Darkness.
"I that speak to thee am he," went on the white-haired stranger. "And I
have permitted thee thus to have thy desire and follow me hither in
order that I may try of what stuff thou art made. Before thee lies a
Horn and a Sword. He that will sound the one, or draw the other, shall,
if his courage fail not, be King over the whole of Britain. I, Thomas
the Rhymer, have spoken it, and, as thou knowest, my tongue cannot lie.
But list ye, the outcome of it all depends on thy bravery; and it will
be a light task, or a heavy, according as thou layest hand on Sword or
Horn first."
Now Dick was more versed in giving blows than in making music, and his
first impulse was to seize the Sword, then, come what might, he had
something in his hand to defend himself with. But just as he was about
to lift it the thought struck him that, if the place were full of
spirits, as he felt sure that it must be, this action of him might be
taken to mean defiance, and might cause them to band themselves together
against him.
[Illustration]
So, changing his mind, he picked up the Horn with a trembling hand, and
blew a blast upon it, which, however, was so weak and feeble that it
could scarce be heard at the other end of the hall.
The result that followed was enough to appal the stoutest heart. Thunder
rolled in crashing peals through the immense hall. The charmed Knights
and their horses woke in an instant from their enchanted sleep. The
Knights sprang to their feet and seized their swords, brandishing them
round their heads, while their great black chargers stamped, and
snorted, and ground their bits, as if eager to escape from their stalls.
And where a moment before all had been stillness and silence, there was
now a scene of wild din and excitement.
Now was the time for Canonbie Dick to play the man. If he had done so
all the rest of his life might have been different.
But his courage failed him, and he lost his chance. Terrified at seeing
so many threatening faces turned towards him, he dropped the Horn and
made one weak, undecided effort to pick up the Sword.
But, ere he could do so, a mysterious voice sounded from somewhere in
the hall, and these were the words that it uttered:
"Woe to the coward, that ever he was born,
Who did not draw the Sword before he blew the Horn."
And, before Dick knew what he was about, a perfect whirlwind of cold,
raw air tore through the cavern, carrying the luckless horse-dealer
along with it; and, hurrying him along the narrow passage through which
he had entered, dashed him down outside on a bank of loose stones and
shale. He fell right to the bottom, and was found, with little life left
in him, next morning, by some shepherds, to whom he had just strength
enough left to whisper the story of his weird and fearful adventure.
[Illustration]
THE LAIRD O' CO'
It was a fine summer morning, and the Laird o' Co' was having a dander
on the green turf outside the Castle walls. His real name was the Laird
o' Colzean, and his descendants to-day bear the proud title of Marquises
of Ailsa, but all up and down Ayrshire nobody called him anything else
than the Laird o' Co'; because of the Co's, or caves, which were to be
found in the rock on which his Castle was built.
He was a kind man, and a courteous, always ready to be interested in the
affairs of his poorer neighbours, and willing to listen to any tale of
woe.
So when a little boy came across the green, carrying a small can in his
hand, and, pulling his forelock, asked him if he might go to the Castle
and get a little ale for his sick mother, the Laird gave his consent at
once, and, patting the little fellow on the head, told him to go to the
kitchen and ask for the butler, and tell him that he, the Laird, had
given orders that his can was to be filled with the best ale that was in
the cellar.
Away the boy went, and found the old butler, who, after listening to
his message, took him down into the cellar, and proceeded to carry out
his Master's orders.
There was one cask of particularly fine ale, which was kept entirely for
the Laird's own use, which had been opened some time before, and which
was now about half full.
"I will fill the bairn's can out o' this," thought the old man to
himself. "'Tis both nourishing and light--the very thing for sick folk."
So, taking the can from the child's hand, he proceeded to draw the ale.
But what was his astonishment to find that, although the ale flowed
freely enough from the barrel, the little can, which could not have held
more than a quarter of a gallon, remained always just half full.
The ale poured into it in a clear amber stream, until the big cask was
quite empty, and still the quantity that was in the little can did not
seem to increase.
The butler could not understand it. He looked at the cask, and then he
looked at the can; then he looked down at the floor at his feet to see
if he had not spilt any.
No, the ale had not disappeared in that way, for the cellar floor was as
white, and dry, and clean, as possible.
"Plague on the can; it must be bewitched," thought the old man, and his
short, stubby hair stood up like porcupine quills round his bald head,
for if there was anything on earth of which he had a mortal dread, it
was Warlocks, and Witches, and such like Bogles.
"I'm not going to broach another barrel," he said gruffly, handing back
the half-filled can to the little lad. "So ye may just go home with what
is there; the Laird's ale is too good to waste on a smatchet like thee."
But the boy stoutly held his ground. A promise was a promise, and the
Laird had both promised, and sent orders to the butler that the can was
to be filled, and he would not go home till it was filled.
It was in vain that the old man first argued, and then grew angry--the
boy would not stir a step.
"The Laird had said that he was to get the ale, and the ale he must
have."
At last the perturbed butler left him standing there, and hurried off to
his master to tell him he was convinced that the can was bewitched, for
it had swallowed up a whole half cask of ale, and after doing so it was
only half full; and to ask if he would come down himself, and order the
lad off the premises.
"Not I," said the genial Laird, "for the little fellow is quite right. I
promised that he should have his can full of ale to take home to his
sick mother, and he shall have it if it takes all the barrels in my
cellar to fill it. So haste thee to the house again, and open another
cask."
The butler dare not disobey; so he reluctantly retraced his steps, but,
as he went, he shook his head sadly, for it seemed to him that not only
the boy with the can, but his master also, was bewitched.
When he reached the cellar he found the bairn waiting patiently where he
had left him, and, without wasting further words, he took the can from
his hand and broached another barrel.
If he had been astonished before, he was more astonished now. Scarce had
a couple of drops fallen from the tap, than the can was full to the
brim.
"Take it, laddie, and begone, with all the speed thou canst," he said,
glad to get the can out of his fingers; and the boy did not wait for a
second bidding. Thanking the butler most earnestly for his trouble, and
paying no attention to the fact that the old man had not been so civil
to him as he might have been, he departed. Nor, though the butler took
pains to ask all round the country-side, could he ever hear of him again,
nor of anyone who knew anything about him, or anything about his sick
mother.
Years passed by, and sore trouble fell upon the House o' Co'. For the
Laird went to fight in the wars in Flanders, and, chancing to be taken
prisoner, he was shut up in prison, and condemned to death. Alone, in a
foreign country, he had no friends to speak for him, and escape seemed
hopeless.
It was the night before his execution, and he was sitting in his lonely
cell, thinking sadly of his wife and children, whom he never expected to
see again. At the thought of them the picture of his home rose clearly
in his mind--the grand old Castle standing on its rock, and the bonnie
daisy-spangled stretch of greensward which lay before its gates, where
he had been wont to take a dander in the sweet summer mornings. Then,
all unbidden, a vision of the little lad carrying the can, who had come
to beg ale for his sick mother, and whom he had long ago forgotten, rose
up before him.
[Illustration]
The vision was so clear and distinct that he felt almost as if he were
acting the scene over again, and he rubbed his eyes to get rid of it,
feeling that, if he had to die to-morrow, it was time that he turned
his thoughts to better things.
But as he did so the door of his cell flew noiselessly open, and there,
on the threshold, stood the self-same little lad, looking not a day
older, with his finger on his lip, and a mysterious smile upon his face.
"Laird o' Co',
Rise and go!"
he whispered, beckoning to him to follow him. Needless to say, the Laird
did so, too much amazed to think of asking questions.
Through the long passages of the prison the little lad went, the Laird
close at his heels; and whenever he came to a locked door, he had but to
touch it, and it opened before them, so that in no long time they were
safe outside the walls.
The overjoyed Laird would have overwhelmed his little deliverer with
words of thanks had not the boy held up his hand to stop him. "Get on my
back," he said shortly, "for thou are not safe till thou art out of this
country."
The Laird did as he was bid, and, marvellous as it seems, the boy was
quite able to bear his weight. As soon as he was comfortably seated the
pair set off, over sea and land, and never stopped till, in almost less
time than it takes to tell it, the boy set him down, in the early dawn,
on the daisy-spangled green in front of his Castle, just where he had
spoken first to him so many years before.
Then he turned, and laid his little hand on the Laird's big one:
"Ae gude turn deserves anither,
Tak' ye that for being sae kind to my auld mither,"
he said, and vanished.
And from that day to this he has never been seen again.
[Illustration]
POUSSIE BAUDRONS
"Poussie, Poussie Baudrons,
Where hae ye been?"
"I've been at London,
Seeing the Queen!"
"Poussie, Poussie Baudrons,
What got ye there?"
"I got a guid fat mousikie,
Rinning up a stair."
"Poussie, Poussie Baudrons,
What did ye do wi't?"
"I put it in my meal-poke
To eat it to my bread."
[Illustration: I got a guid fat mousikie Rinning up a stair]
THE MILK-WHITE DOO
There was once a man who got his living by working in the fields. He had
one little son, called Curly-Locks, and one little daughter, called
Golden-Tresses; but his wife was dead, and, as he had to be out all day,
these children were often left alone. So, as he was afraid that some
evil might befall them when there was no one to look after them, he, in
an ill day, married again.
I say, "in an ill day," for his second wife was a most deceitful woman,
who really hated children, although she pretended, before her marriage,
to love them. And she was so unkind to them, and made the house so
uncomfortable with her bad temper, that her poor husband often sighed to
himself, and wished that he had let well alone, and remained a widower.
But it was no use crying over spilt milk; the deed was done, and he had
just to try to make the best of it. So things went on for several years,
until the children were beginning to run about the doors and play by
themselves.
Then one day the Goodman chanced to catch a hare, and he brought it
home and gave it to his wife to cook for the dinner.
Now his wife was a very good cook, and she made the hare into a pot of
delicious soup; but she was also very greedy, and while the soup was
boiling she tasted it, and tasted it, till at last she discovered that
it was almost gone. Then she was in a fine state of mind, for she knew
that her husband would soon be coming home for his dinner, and that she
would have nothing to set before him.